Monday, April 30, 2007

I've always bristled at the stereotype that women prefer jerks. Thatwe're drawn, by some reptilian part of our brain, to guys who would becapable of bashing in our heads with a rock – and then making us cleanup the mess.

Unfortunately, the stereotype is true.

Ihad just boarded a plane the other day, heading from New York to LosAngeles. A nor'easter threatened to smash the East Coast. Flights werebeing canceled, and security lines at the airport pooled hundreds ofdamp people in stagnant lines for more than two hours. I nearly criedwhen I got on board, so grateful was I to have finally made it on – andso relieved that I'd be going home.

The stewardess warned us toturn off "all electronic devices" as the plane started to taxi. But ayoung man kept yapping on his cell phone. He was having some kind ofissue with the airline, something about changing the date of his returntrip. I wasn't really listening, but he was three rows in front of me,and speaking so loudly, it was hard not to hear.

The stewardess walked over to his seat and asked him to get off the phone.

"I'm almost done," he said.

"No,Sir. You're done right now. We can't take off until you turn off yourphone," she said. The stewardess was British and quite a bit older, andhad it been me, I would have listened. But it wasn't me. It wasObnoxious Man.

"I just need five more minutes," he said.

"You get off the phone, or you're getting off the plane. Is that understood?"

"Oh,no," I thought. "We're going to have to taxi back to the gate. He'll beapprehended. By the time things normalize, the nor'easter will havehit, and I'll be stranded."

The stewardess huffed and puffed,but ultimately, she let the guy finish his call. When she returned toher seat, he got up from his.

"Can I just tell you why I was on the phone?" he said, walking toward her seat in the back.

"Sit down!" she said. She was annoyed, but not angry. In fact, was that … amusement I detected in her voice?

Sheescorted him back, returned to her seat and had barely fastened herseatbelt, when Obnoxious Man popped up out of his chair and headed tothe bathroom.

My jaw dropped.

"What do you think you're doing?" the stewardess asked.

"They made me drink my whole bottle of water at security," he said, shutting the door behind him.

Ilooked around at my fellow passengers, most of whom were women, tryingto catch someone's eye and share a can-you-believe-this-guy moment.Instead I saw a lot of smiles.

These women thought Obnoxious Man was kinda adorable. They thought he was funny. I thought I was going to lose my mind.

Whenthis overindulged man child finally sat down, the plane took off. Andalmost immediately, the women around Obnoxious Man started chatting himup. Where was he from? Where was he going? He ate up the attention, andthe women ate up his brazen cluelessness. Two middle-age women giggledwhenever he spoke to them.

When the captain turned off theseatbelt sign, a cute teenage girl got up out of her seat and stood inthe aisle to talk to Obnoxious Man, hanging on his every word. I don'tknow if he got her phone number. I couldn't watch any longer withoutreaching for the airsickness bag.

I turned back to my magazineand fumed. The guy is congenitally stupid, and now he's got a harem? Iunderstood then why Adam Sandler is a millionaire. All the women whospoke with Obnoxious Man had the same look in their eyes – like theywere beholding a precious, silly little puppy. A cute thing they wantedto take home and nurture.

This, I realized, is the true secretof the jerk. It's not that women want to be mistreated; it's that allof us want to coddle helpless men.

Well, almost all of us. Whenwe landed at LAX, I stood behind Obnoxious Man in the aisle, waiting toget off the plane. Impatient, he whipped his head around and said,"There should be doors at the back of these, too … oh, wait! There aredoors …"

"They won't open them," I snapped, so sternly it made the people around us titter. "Not even for you."

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

Actually,she said, several ponies. And a clown. Oooh, and a bounce house, and aguy who makes balloon animal hats. Maybe a magician, too.

"I'm going to be 60, but I want to have a party like I'm going to be 6," she told me.

Iseized on the idea immediately – how adorable! We can have a Barbiecake and a face-painter. Everyone can get little goodie bags filledwith candy and bubbles. Maybe we'll hire a guy to dress in an Elmo suitand dance around. It will be perfect! It will be hysterical! It will …never happen.

Israelis have one party. It doesn't matter if theoccasion is a bris, a birthday or a bar mitzvah – if my mom's friendsare gathering in celebration of something there will always be obsceneamounts of food, a full bar, live music and, occasionally, a mime (yourguess is as good as mine).

Hubby and I had to hire three bandsto perform at our wedding in order to accommodate our tastes and Mom'sintractable image of a proper party.

So, I should have knownthat no matter how different a party Mom said she wanted, in the endwe'd wind up with lamb skewers and a lady with an accordion.

Still,I held out hope that Mom was going to let us go off script for hercelebration. The whole thing set my imagination afire: Maybe we couldhave it at Chuck E. Cheese or American Girl Place! Or maybe make it aprincess party and have Cinderella show up! What about hosting thewhole thing at Disneyland?

"No," Mom said. "I want it at the beach."

A beach party! OK. We can have a big beach Twister game, maybe get a snow cone machine and a piñata.

No. No. And no.

Oneby one, all my ideas were shot down until this party started toresemble every other party Mom's group has ever thrown and attended –just with a better view of surfers.

Her crowd wouldn't go forface-painting, Mom said. They don't have any use for the Wiggles, andprincesses "just aren't me" (evidence was mounting to the contrary, butI bit my tongue). Instead, Mom had a list of decoration and foodrequests that were more Tutto Mare than "Sesame Street": GrandMarnier-soaked asparagus spears? Having trouble finding that in aLunchable.

Mom did commit enough to the little-girl theme to gowith teddy bear invites, but only after a strange exchange in which sheviolently rejected my idea of sending out Malibu Barbie invitations.

Shecollects Barbies. But that's not the point. The point is, she hadaccepted my offer to plan her "little girl party" but hated every oneof my ideas. That's fine. It's her party. But after being shot down atevery turn – the food, the music, the entertainment, the location – Iwas at wit's end when the invitations became an issue.

I knowthat Mom gets a little stressed out before a big event. Her temper canflare. She can get a wee bit bossy (one of my favorite wedding picturesis a close-up of my Mom's arm, outstretched and ending in a tautlypointed finger). In the end, I know her control-freakishness will payoff with a fun party, something she'll embrace and remember. But rightnow, it's driving me nuts.

Thursday, April 5, 2007

No one would tell me why Zev's swim instructor left. One day, a fewmonths ago, the office staff at the school just said, "He's not hereanymore." And then followed that up with a heavy silence thatsuggested, "And you know why."

Thing is, I didn't.

Ithought Ta-Da (that's what Zev called him, "Ta-Da!") was a bit of adiva. From what I could tell, he tried to change his schedule everyweek. He insisted on eating his lunch in the pool. He was a bit snippywith management.

But he was fantastic with the kids, reallyable to read them and challenge them in a natural and gentle way. So, Icouldn't imagine what he could possibly have done to get kicked out ofthe pool.

Then a few days ago, a fellow Pool Mom asked me, "Did he ever hit on you?"

Wewere sitting poolside, watching our little swimmers squirm and squigglein the water, and she explained, "He hit on all the moms. Peoplecomplained about it. That's why he was fired."

"Seriously?" I said. " That's why he was fired?"

"Yes," she said. "He didn't hit on you?"

Iguess I have a different definition of being "hit on" than the othermoms. Yes, Ta-Da would often comment on my appearance. But it's notlike he ever asked for my number. Frankly, I thought his attentionswere exaggerated attempts at small talk.

Thisis not the stuff of a sexual predator. This is the stuff of someone whowants a nice Macy's gift certificate at the end of the school year.

Iquizzed Pool Mom a bit about her own experience: Had Ta-Da beenaggressive? No. Did he use foul or explicitly sexual language? No. Didhe ever proposition her? No.

So what was the problem?

"He really intimidated me," she said.

MaybeTa-Da really did cross a line with someone – I have no way of knowing.But if just saying stupidly inappropriate things is intimidating, thenI must come across as Andre the Giant.

When fertilitytreatments failed me, I told curvaceous Lyn that I was going to startburning incense at her feet. I compared a buff former NYPD cop friendto an oak tree, ready to climb.

If I had to communicate without innuendo for one week, I'd be reduced to shadow puppets by Wednesday.

Tome, flirtatious banter is the currency of everyday interactions. MaybeI'm wrong to call a beautiful girlfriend of mine "Gorgeous." Or maybecomplimenting a waiter's smile can be constituted as harassment.

Butmaybe, just maybe, the complaining Pool Moms had their bikinis in abunch over nothing. Maybe Ta-Da wasn't coming on topeople, he was talking to them.

It's been nearly four monthssince Zev has seen Ta-Da, but he still talks about him – a testament, Ithink to the instructor's gift with kids. Ta-Da earned his nicknamebecause he taught my son to say "Ta da!" after every impressiveaccomplishment – floating on his back, kicking his legs. Zev loved theencouragement and will now routinely say "Ta da!" when he feels proudof something he's done.

I usually clap my hands and repeat the exclamation. But I think I won't just repeat his "Ta da!" anymore.